


Defining Love, an Attempt in Writing

by Chryselis



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Diary/Journal, He wants Ferdinand to show him, Hubert wants to know what love is, Introspection, M/M, Post-Time-Skip, References to A support, Repressed Emotions, Short snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21629626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryselis/pseuds/Chryselis
Summary: Hubert spends a week exploring how he feels about Ferdinand in writing. A series of diary entries prompted by #Ferdibertweek2019.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 40
Kudos: 126
Collections: Ferdibert Ship Week 2019





	1. A Half-Baked Hypothesis

**Author's Note:**

> Some small indulgent snippets to honor the prompts of Ferdibert Week 2019. Enjoy.

Since early childhood I have felt that ‘love’ is an abstract label people abuse to excuse inappropriate and manipulative behavior, much like is custom in the name of loyalty, family, or succeeding the consumption of alcohol. While in some cases it can prove to be a wonderful tool as a means to an end, consciously or not, the recognition of ‘love’ is also entirely dependent on an individual’s reception of its expression. As such, ‘love’ is a word that often falls prey to misunderstandings: thus left wanting for a clear definition, how is one to denote what constitutes love as opposed to mere admiration, infatuation or a dangerous passion bordering on obsession?

What does it mean when I, Hubert von Vestra, consider the notion that ‘love’ may be an appropriate expression for the myriad of thoughts and more or less tangible feelings elicited during any given interaction with a certain insufferable man of supposed noble intentions, whose name bequeaths ad nauseam the legacy of a mighty headache?

There are many existing conceptual frameworks for ‘love’ in all its varying degrees and forms, proposed by recognized philosophers and scholars of the human condition, which I have dutifully consulted in order to further inform my hypothesis. However, not a single text has helped me reach a conclusion, and the sight of you in the war room, or even the remote presence of you in a signed and sealed document are enough to send me spiraling into endless speculation and apprehension once more.

We recently promised to put our words and thoughts for each other from pen to paper, but how am I to do so when I do not know where to begin, and precisely with what?

I hope that, by dedicating some time at the end of each day this coming week to consider aspects of our ~~relationsh partnership~~ friendship(?) in writing, I can set this dilemma to rest once and for all.

These notes are an attempt to define how I feel about you, for myself. I ~~doubt~~ dearly hope that you will never read these, but writing as if I were sharing tea with you also serves as a preparation for the great exercise in honesty I may find myself having to practice by the end of this week.

Speaking of sharing tea, I think that teatime is a very good place to start.


	2. Teatime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Hubert considers the meaning of teatime.

**Teatime**

_A time in the afternoon when two or more persons convene to take tea or coffee, often accompanied by a selection of small sweet and savoury bites._

The need for disambiguation of the definition immediately strikes, as teatime with you is in no way comparable to teatime with other persons.

For one, I am loathe to take tea with anyone other than yourself. Edelgard and I never developed a habit for the custom, and as such I have no other experience to fairly contrast with ours as a means of differentiation.

Teatime with you is a habit. It reminds me of a chore, in the sense that a child sees a chore only as taking time away from an easier, more pleasant task she could occupy herself with, yet with maturity the chore morphs into a sense of responsibility and respect, a joy taken in knowing that the effort consecrated to the task now will bloom into something far more important, bolstered by force of habit and dedication. Much like a habit, what once was a chore now is an immovable, natural part of the definition of who I am, a man who routinely takes his coffee across from you as you sip a more delicate, but equally refined, tea.

Teatime with you is something I miss. When we are too busy and exchange only rushed and muted apologies about needing to cancel in passing due to emergencies or meetings or whatever nuisance should present itself, I feel angry that the state of the world dare to take this precious, scavenged time away from us. When we march to battle, I wonder if we are both thinking the same, and I know we are when we convene late at night over the dwindling campfire without even exchanging a word. You always manage to procure some tin cups and a flask of clean drinking water, or a smuggled dredge of red wine, and I’ll be damned if anyone begrudges me referring to these moments as our teatime as well. For my part, it is never a stretch to ensure a few dried candied fruit pieces are to be found on my person. Teatime with you after all, and despite my preference for bitter coffee, should be shared over something sweet.

At times so little of me feels human, in comparison to what other bodies busy themselves with in an existence mundane, overwhelming, or tragic. Yet in those stolen meetings with you, reminded of the sound of my own laughter and bedazzled by how yours runs from your lips across the air between us and bounds through the garden, helped by the vaulted dome of the gazebo, I am but a man taking pleasure in drinking coffee and exchanging pleasantries with ~~the one I- an esteemed-~~ you.

Teatime feels like the deep breath before the plunge, it is too short and too long in its drawn out anticipation all at once. It is gentle and calm, close, indulgent and essential in turn.

I think I might like it very much.


	3. Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: Hubert considers the meaning of the word domestic.

**Domestic** _noun_  
 _Hired help of lower social standing that acts as a servant performing menial tasks within a household._

My entry today was quickly decided when you so kindly reminded me that my dedication to our Emperor is no different than that of a hired domestic.* While we are no strangers to heated disagreements (something I in fact rather enjoy, for you do have such novels ways to excuse the redness on your cheeks whenever a remark bothers you particularly, but I digress). The use of the word as a vessel for your bittered tone pained me greatly, for it is something I thought you  of all people understood about me.

Yes, I value dedication to the utmost degree. Yes, I take on tasks no matter the rank, no matter their nature. I do not discriminate on the value of work that needs to be done, and I fail to see in what way that is any different to the gusto with which you apply yourself to your values and ambitions? Had we not in fact made peace on the difference between your unmatched optimism and my measured preemptive caution as expressions of the same need to be of use to another? So I must ask you, why were you so keen to paint my servitude and domesticity as qualities of lower standing? Should you let me, I would gladly apply it to you. I do so daily, in fact. You never say no when I offer to pour your tea. When I hold the door for you. When I bring you fresh teacakes after your morning ride with the horses because you prefer it on an empty stomach, yet still regret the decision afterwards.

But if it offends you so, if in your eyes it paints me a man unworthy of your noble and clearly hard-earned approval, then I suppose of us both, it is I who plays the fool. Foolish of me to assume you would perhaps enjoy being the focus of my attentions, for once divided from my duty, careful to not mistaken Edelgard’s preferences for yours- which I’ll have you know are rather complex in their multitude and specificity. Your thicker hair grows more easily brittle, and is more suited to care with heavier southern oils, for example. But you snobbing my efforts when applied to Edelgard is not what I take issue with here.

What pains me the most in your words is the realization that I happily dedicate my good-natured servitude to domestic affairs, both of the state and the home, at your side. While you perhaps do not.

PS: Some of your better insults, should you insist on antagonizing me so; death’s head upon a mop stick; marquis of uselessly long limbs; gloomy glowering grumbletonian.

PPS: You are at times a decidedly airheaded gregarious foppish ginger-snap.

PPPS: *rather feeble simile if I am to be honest, given that we both receive a wage from the Empire for our service. Nevermind that I have been Edelgard’s retainer since a young age. What on earth were you even getting at- nevermind. I shall put this matter to rest. Clearly you are not capable of keeping to factual accuracy in that stubborn fiery head of yours. Goodnight.


	4. Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Hubert considers how he feels about winter.

**Winter**

_ The coldest season of the year. _

  
Winter. With the aggravating asinine complaints of the cold officially on everyone’s lips, it is impossible to not consider how I feel about it. For winter is a season I have perhaps more poetic thoughts for than anyone considers me capable of. When one’s humanity is often subtracted and reduced to how much of it is isolated for the sake of the very dreams and goals seeded in the kern of one’s humanity, one is wont to feel rather at home with the idea of winter, sharp, cold, and lonely.

Winter bellows and swells, it swoops in unwelcome, and - to the appraisal of a careless onlooker - it is the cruel winner of a race that spring, summer, and autumn must take part in despite their best efforts to surmount the callous carnage their cousin winter wreaks unfairly.

Winter is the white noise, the creeping cunning chill rolling over hills betrayed by the frost clinging to unsuspecting creatures in its wake, who shivering to their very core wish winter would swiftly be on its way.

Let me tell you, how winter feels, when he freezes the ground over the seeds, when he reminds the pests that their feast is not without end, when he puts the dormice to sleep in their dens and helps the red squirrels to dig deep and find the autumn treasures they gathered and preserved for themselves. Let me tell you what winter sees, when ungrateful eyes are cast on him from the hearth of warm comfortable homes, when he knows that spring is still to come and all under his watch will bloom and grow once again but only once his task is done.

Only once winter has done the deed, once his back is turned, his boots covered in dirt, and his gloves look ready to bleed; only then can the seeds bloom, shall the dormice spring through fields, and the squirrels happily perch back atop the trees.

It is thankless work, to be winter, but it is not to be without heart. It is to shrink a heart several sizes smaller, so that summer can burn with grandiose, unabashed fever. In the way summer calls attention to himself with his radiant, unbearable sun high in the sky, in the way he announces himself with fanfare, he goads winter on only to retreat from the chase offering golden autumn leaves in wait. And oh, how winter chases, how he turns the gifts of ripened fruit to mulch and mush, all for the smallest chance, a glimpse of what it is to bask in affectionate warmth, to rest on the generous breast of summer’s unapologetic grace.

Round and round they go, hot and cold, back and forth, a race through seasons, years together.

Then who’s the winner?

Maybe winter. Maybe summer.

Maybe the chase, the rise and fall of one yearning for the other.


	5. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Hubert considers his deepest scars.

**Scars** **  
** Marks born on skin where a wound never fully heals but holds itself together.

How peculiar that within a few days I notice myself looking forward to this moment of reflection, that slots itself neatly into the late hours of waking when the candles burn low. The dripping wax often reminds me of the slow descent into madness I’ve witnessed many fall prey to at my patient hand, fear of death sinking their eyes into their sockets. And yet it seems my own descent manifests elsewise, through these manic swirls of scribbled ink on parchment that appear to be the markings of a man possessed. 

Listening to the scritch scratch of your own nib drafting legislation earlier today, while I naturally reviewed the latest reports ready in your office, something unsettled me. It was as if the familiarity of the sound were about to reveal the clandestine writing of my evening hours, a secret made all too raw and vulnerable within your reach. Then suddenly it was everywhere, crackling across my skin, and I sat wringing my hands to focus like one of those horrific wind-up toy monkeys.

When you noticed, you softly, carefully asked if my scars itched.

It is no secret, of course, that my body is as wrangled, gnarled, and marked as the ones I’ve practiced dissolving, dismembering and discarding. But it is one that until now between us remained unspoken, much like these writings, and that you should care to mention them tore open the seams of my hastily cobbled together composure.

When I failed to respond, to your eyes likely impassive despite the turmoil within, you rose and so calmly suggested that perhaps I needed coffee.

Oh Ferdinand, your name shall be eponym to my fatal descent into insanity. “Here lies Hubert von Vestra”, were there ever be a body left to bury and blame for its own failure, “who tragically succumbed to Ferdinand von Aegir”. Lay me bare for all to see, Ferdinand, no longer scarred skin and brittle fused bones, guts spilled and stomach squeezed empty. The irrelevant mass of flesh and matter hiding the inextricable soul that you have somehow snagged as a trophy. For that is the truest of all scars, is it not? The one we are all forced to carry. The scar from where an aching soul was welded to a body, the notion of “I” bound to time-stricken reality, the severing of the umbilical chord of nothing that forces us to breathe, feel, and be. 

There is so little to be afraid of, for a man like me. For so many pathetic quivering men, I have been both their greatest fear and their salvation, the end to unimaginable pain and the bringer of eternity.

Yet why, of all things, does being close to you awaken the burn of a scar I had forgotten I even had in me?

I am a coward, Ferdinand. A man who hides his scars. A man far too afraid to ever let himself feel.

For someone who lives only by inflicting death and pain, how can love ever be something adequate to receive?


	6. Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Hubert considers why horses are maybe not quite so stupid and annoying.

**Horses  
** _Big snorting beasts that defecate while you’re trying to ride them because they don’t even have the brain to stop and be polite about it. Also beloved by Ferdinand von Aegir, Prime Minister of questionable taste._   
  


I was forced to help you tend to the horses today. ~~  
I hate horses. Horses are stupid and I only tolerate them for their usefulness and servitude as beasts of burden and modes of transport. ~~

Just the thought of your passionate rebuttal is enough to make me cross those words out.

Have it your way then. Horses are perhaps not as stupid as I once thought, and perhaps yes they are intelligent creatures capable of communicating a moderate amount and they certainly can feel some kind of human emotion or every horse I ride would not repeatedly attempt to kick me away or buck me off at some point.

No- fine yes, that has everything to do with my lack of patience and my fear of my feet being anywhere but on firm solid ground, and certainly not up high (water is tolerable, and at least useful for neatly murdering people, much rather drown a man than push him from a height to certain death just to avoid the mess, even though it’s hardly up to me to clean it up).

~~Even so there is nothing to like about horses.~~

How ridiculous that despite my own original opinion I can now propose enough counter-evidence to that statement to reject it myself: horses are beautiful, horses are loyal, horses are more intelligent than men give them credit for, respect your horse for it can crush your insides with one simple kick (and they consider me dangerous), horses will work with you if you show them care and understanding, each horse has its own personality, and so on, and so forth. I do not even particularly disagree with any of these statements.

No, I do not want to have this discussion to your face, because I will not admit you are right about horses, of all the ridiculous things you are sometimes right about. I will simply… Be less mean to them out loud. And perhaps think to bring an extra carrot on a ride once in a while like you do. And stop referring to you as the carrot-carrying-carrot-top even though I do love how it makes you bristle so, your ears turn red, and your voice shrill with aggravation.

It is not quite a compromise, nor exactly a change of heart. It is more… Understanding. Growth maybe? A broadened perspective earned by paying close attention to the heart and values of another.

Do you have any idea, Ferdinand? That slowly, some parts of you, are also becoming parts of me.


	7. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6: Hubert considers if it is possible for a dead man to pine.

**Pining** **  
** _ Though colloquially used to refer to the sense of yearning for something unattainable, often in love, the verb implies languish, the slow decline of mind and body in the absence of love. _

If there is one thing I’ve learnt about man at war, it is that his boundaries pale and crumble not only in the face of fear, but also in that of love. For the love of crown, state, or country, for the love of family, spouse, or child. Man alone is nothing, but man with purpose and love is multiplied, exponential and greater than the microscopic speck of his own existence eroded by the rolling waves of time.

So it is no wonder then, that accusing one of pining is to imply they have begun to wither away and die. And still, though some say that love compounds to surmount all, the desperate need for its reciprocation is proof of its own egotistical hypocrisy. I have never yearned for love. I have sworn to absolve myself of all selfish desires to be at the service of the mighty hand of justice, no longer victim to the whims of moods and wants.

Remove the ego, and man is eternal. Abandon your sense of self for purpose, forget the selfish dreams of deeds remembered in your name and become a shadow not to a person but to an idea, an ambition of such gravity that it will sway time's very tide, the torchbearer of change already traveling to you from generations past. An idea, immune to past, present, and future.

What could you ever yearn for, if your very existence is second to a cause? In discarding ego, the means to an end become abstract in the face of total metamorphosis, where the self is a tool and not a lost soul waiting for the guidance of fate. It is certainty, control, freedom from morality driven principles that seek to shame the ego to behave, always at the mercy of a greater power dangling praise and fulfillment to the child of man like a butcher leading a beast to slaughter.

Yet Edelgard says I am pining.

And I am uncertain. Is there even enough of me left to pine? Have I not renounced Hubert von Vestra in exchange for a future that is neither yours nor mine? The shadow, the right hand man, the unwavering dagger of duty twisted in the gut of every obstacle to the plan.

Who is this man who fears, yearns, and hopes for something to keep near? Where does he sit at the table, between the strategist and the spy? Across from the murderer, the servant, the torturer, the adept of the dark arts more familiar with blood than water?

I do not know, Ferdinand. I simply cannot tell you. I fear that somewhere during the war I went missing in action, and every moment with you breathes life into an already cold corpse.

It hurts, Ferdinand. Please make it stop. I do not know how. For how can I kill a ghost of something I thought long gone? I am at it's mercy. And yours.


	8. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7: Hubert concludes that he would like to ask Ferdinand to dance.

**Dancing**  
_A pattern of steps or movements, usually executed to music, at times rehearsed and practiced._

For all that I have written this week, I have mostly felt like I was drowning in some unknown variable too nebulous for me to define. But a question struck me tonight as I watched you laugh and take Dorothea for a twirl while Petra performed a local folk song from Brighid, aided by the considerable amount of wine shared over dinner. Perhaps I should have drunk some too, because then it could have granted passage to the request that remained locked behind my lips:

Ferdinand von Aegir, would you care to share a dance with me?

Right now, tonight. Tomorrow, and the week after while we’re at it, and every moment for the rest of our lives together or apart.

For what are these years of history between us but a now effortless, practiced dance?

When I think of dancing, I am filled with a disdain so strong for the practice that my face likely looks, as Edelgard would say, “constipated and primed for murder”.

But when I think of dancing with you, I suppose it wouldn’t be so much of a chore, dragged along by your relentless enthusiasm while your confident lead saves me from appearing the total fool.

Dancing with you is not a flight of fancy, it is as serious and wholehearted as any endeavor that has the misfortune of being conquered by your hand.

Oh, who am I trying to fool?

This is no longer something for me to pour over dramatically and dispose of through written word.

This is something for us to share in the way we take tea together, serve together, suffer through the seasons of war and life together, longing for the moments we share and remembering them fondly whenever we are apart.

And as my stomach sinks with dread my heart still rises with elation, for I know that if I am to follow the threads of these scattered thoughts they all undeniably lead back to you.

That’s it.

I cannot bear to live a moment longer without telling you, now the words have made themselves at home in my mind, heart, and bones! I missed my chance earlier, and I will not miss it again, nor concoct another scheme to delay the inevitable.  
~~What will I devise next, a garden that will bloom over the next decade to finally reveal my true feelings once the shrubs have grown to maturity and bloomed?~~ (Actually a good idea, though not relevant right now this moment.)

Maybe this time Ferdinand, I can borrow some of your fire and courage. Let us not wait any longer. I hope my conclusion is not mistaken.

I do so hope, my dearest Ferdinand, that the next words I hear from you will echo my most heartfelt passion, the pain and anguish and yearning that you unwittingly fashioned into a heart not so battered, despite being a few sizes too small, and at first not entirely equipped to reciprocate.

Please, Ferdinand.

I love you.

For it is not only yearning to be with you, but who we have become together that defines this feeling I have come to understand as love.

* * *

The parchment is dotted with blots of ink, as if the writer whipped their quill from the inkwell without tapping off the excess, frenzied and eager to leave the marks they desperately needed to on the paper. It seems they wrote and left in a hurry.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this series of small offerings.
> 
> Find me on Twitter to shout about Ferdinand and Hubert @chryseliss


End file.
